


Howlin' for you

by Mifune



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hanzo is a mess but he kinda gets over it, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, half-mexican mccree, kind of slow burn???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mifune/pseuds/Mifune
Summary: McCree makes a stop in Dorado, Mexico, before answering the Recall and meets a mysterious man in a bar that promises to make his night a lot more interesting.orMcCree wants to do the right thing, Hanzo is sarcastic and there is a lot of emotional baggage unpacked in one night.





	Howlin' for you

**Author's Note:**

> i grew tired of people butchering my beautiful native language so i wrote this, with lots of dialogue in spanish. it is now my turn to butcher yours, because i haven't written in english in ages.  
> no translation to english, we die like men.  
> (kidding, translations are at the bottom.)

It almost feels like home.

It’s been years since he had the opportunity to speak entirely in Spanish. The soft words bring memories: the time when his mamá would sing old songs, the friendly bickering of his siblings, the loud voice of an actress in a telenovela, even the times when Reyes would yell at him in rapid Spanish.

The language is not forgotten. His tongue rolls with familiarity, he embraces the words of his childhood. He’s been too Mexico two times. One, to give his mother a proper burial in her home country. Two, to spend Día de Muertos with Reyes and Genji, back when Overwatch had the days counted.

McCree takes his hat off, letting the warm night breeze dishevel his brown messy hair. Dorado’s streets are quiet, few people smoking on the corners and chattering in a low voice. It’s March and the jacarandas are starting to bloom. Some petals lay on the ground, lilac and pretty against the dirty sidewalk.

The weather is warm, pleasant. McCree chews on his cigarillo, walking slowly towards his destination, the spurs managing to interrupt the noiseless night.

He remembers his mamá with each step. A strong woman with a loud, but kind, voice. Straight black hair, long enough to be held in braids. She used to smell like cinnamon. Even when he came back with a bunch of gang members, even when he disappeared, even when he gave her the first medal he gained through his work in Overwatch, his mom never lost that warm, loving look in her eyes.

McCree sighs, reminiscing about his past is not one of his favorite hobbies. He can see his destination, the lights of the motorcycles and the loud laughs telling him the bar is close.

Calaveras is not place for common folk. Members from Los Muertos roam around, drinking and yelling. The graffitis of “fuera de aquí” and skulls of different colors on the walls should be enough warning to not get close. McCree tips his hat, covering his eyes as he walks towards the bar.

The whole place smells like piss and sweat. It’s hot inside and the old bartender looks beyond tired. There are people sitting on the tables who don’t look like gang members. And McCree himself has spent enough time underground to know they are, most likely, also wanted men, criminals, informers. Crème de la crème.

He walks to the bartender. “Whisky, por favor,” asks and the old man nods. Jesse leans against the counter, scanning the crowd. Tattoos, big guns, people playing poker and gamblers. He is kind of surprised to see a lot of bounty hunters gathered in there. And winces. They didn’t even pay attention to him. A jukebox against one of the walls of the bar is playing a Santana song.

The old bartender gives him his whisky without even looking at him. McCree takes a sip of what he thinks is the shittiest whisky he has ever had in his entire life and almost chokes against his glass, barely suppressing the urge to spit the liquid.

“Not very smooth, McCree,” someone talks at his side. He immediately regains his composure, glancing at his interlocutor.

The informer is younger than him. He’s dressed all in black and his words have a strong Russian accent to them. McCree doesn’t move until the younger man speaks again.

“Your bounty went up again,” he says, handing McCree a poster of his bounty.  The six zeros next to his head makes him smirk a bit.

“Aw hell,” McCree replies. “Shit.”

“Everyone underground knows about the Recall,” he replies back, taking the poster again to leave it on the counter. At this, McCree visibly tenses up, tipping his hat once again so the informer wouldn’t see his expression. “We are laying low for now. We can’t make business if Overwatch comes back.”

“Is the Recall a fact or a rumor?” McCree asks, pretending not to know. As if the small comm in his hotel room hasn’t burnt a hole in his thoughts since Winston called all the alive agents.

“There’s a new informer. A pretty good one. They leaked a footage of an ex Overwatch member making the Recall. Though, it could be a prank because… you know, the one speaking was a gorilla.”

Jesse almost snorts at this. “A gorilla.”

“They go by the name of Sombra. Their services are really expensive but I think they’re the most trustworthy underground informer,” the man fidgets with the beer he has in hand. “They also leaked a footage of a Talon operative. A weird one.”

McCree takes a sip of that awful whisky because he certainly doesn’t want to be sober to hear this. “Weird?”

The man winces. “There was a masked man. And he… killed an entire police squadron. Alone. The weirdest part? He turned into smoke.”

“Smoke?” Jesse has heard the same rumors: a merciless masked man who mysteriously turns into smoke. A dangerous Talon member, the _Reaper_.

“I saw the footage. He really turned into smoke. Black smoke.”

Jesse takes another sip of his whisky. He decides to change the subject because, really, he doesn’t need to know about Talon right now. A pair of young gang members start yelling outside of the bar. “With all this Recall stuff, do you think I still can make it to New Mexico? The remainin’ members of Deadlock won’t stay still knowin’ the organization that disbanded ‘em is comin’ back.”

The informer shakes his head. “There aren’t much of them out there. I think you’re safe.”

McCree takes a ten hundred bill from his pocket. He gives it to the informer without looking at him. “Is there anythin’ else I should know?”

“Junkrat and Roadhog bounty went up too. Ah, and there’s this one… you remember the bounty that sometimes appears in the underground? It’s up again and we were told he’s here in Mexico,” the informer smirks. “The name’s Hanzo, he doubles yours.”

Jesse whistles. “That much? What did that man even do?”

The man shrugs. “No one knows. We got the tip three days ago. You might remember, the bounty has constantly changed through all these years, but this is the first time it’s this high. Though, we don’t know anything else aside of his name and age. Not even a picture.”

“He sounds like a real good deal, then. That explains why no one bothered to put a gun on my head the moment I walked in.”

His informer chuckles. Then, he puts the empty bottle of beer on the counter and leans towards him. McCree wants to step back, but restrains from doing so.

“Be careful, McCree. Things are starting to change. The underground is no longer a safe place to hide,” he sound serious and gives McCree a pat in the back before walking away.

McCree raises his hand and waves him a goodbye. He finishes the shitty whisky, idly playing with the ice cubes.

He still needs to answer Overwatch’s Recall, but just thinking about it makes him uneasy. It’s been too long. Reyes is dead. Morrison is dead. Amari is dead. He can’t bear to lose anyone anymore. He’s getting too old to bear the death of another friend. Too old to mourn, to cry, to protect.

Jesse sighs.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, McCree orders another whisky. The old man grunts but proceeds to refill his glass. Outside, the yelling evolves into an argument. The younger gang members are getting inebriated and that is always a good sign to get the hell out of there.

The bounty hunters barely look at him. They get their weapons of preference ready and step outside, scattering through the town. Whoever Hanzo is, he better be a damn good fighter.

McCree takes a sip of his whisky. Back in his hotel room there is only loneliness and the painful reminder of Overwatch’s Recall. He still has his doubts about it. Is it a good idea? Overwatch got shut down for a reason.

But he also knows the gangs have been growing and expanding. Los Muertos have a lot of power because the Mexican government can’t deal with them, Deadlock is coming back and Talon is as scary as ever.

This whole thing gives him a headache. At least, if he goes back to his room, he can take a cold shower and clear his head.

However, when he prepares to leave his glass and go back to his hotel, someone appears right beside him, also leaning against the counter, a powerful arm close to his. Jesse lets his eyes roam through the tight black fabric of his long sleeve. He can see the form of his biceps molding the shirt.

And then, he looks up. Tall, buff, black hair with an undercut. The piercings at the bridge of his nose are the first thing that catches his attention. An almost regal presence that warns: do not get close.

Danger.

And all of his alarms go blaring the moment the stranger looks at him.

Jesse can’t stop himself. This man is the most handsome man he’s ever seen.

Before he’s able to think properly, McCree realizes the stranger is still holding his gaze. And then he speaks: “You are Jesse McCree, aren’t you?”

McCree, somehow, regains his composure and tips his hats, offering the handsome man a charming smile.

“Jesse McCree, _en persona_ ,” the stranger seems unamused at his flirty tone. “Is there something I can do for you?”

The man huffs in response. But he’s still looking at him and McCree is kind of loss at words. He doesn’t look like a bounty hunter or a gang member, but he still has a dangerous bearing around him that makes it hard to get close. He definitely isn’t a local and neither a member of Los Muertos. He doesn’t have any visible weapons with him so he can’t be a bounty hunter either. A tourist, maybe? Doing some extreme tour around these parts of the town?

“Why did you come to this bar when you have a bounty on your head?” the man asks, turning to look at the old jukebox.

Jesse blinks, surprised.

“Aw, darlin’, these people have no interest in me. There’s someone out there holdin’ a better price, after all.”

The man taps his fingers against the counter. “A better price…”

McCree leans closer, a lopsided grin growing across his face.

“But tell me, sugar, I know I haven’t seen your handsome face around here, what are you doin’ in a place like this?” talks McCree, trying to get a good look at the strong muscles of the stranger’s chest.

“It is none of your concern,” the stranger replies, his voice monotone. “Do you always flirt with the first person that talks to you in a bar?”

McCree laughs.

“Usually, yeah.”

Jesse takes out a cigarillo from the pocket of his jeans and idly plays with it between his lips. After a few minutes, he searches in his pockets for a lighter, finding none. Damnit, he must have left it in his room.

But before he can vocalize it to the old bartender so he can borrow one, the gorgeous stranger hands him over a small, blue lighter without saying anything. McCree takes it, looking up just to find the man raising an eyebrow.

“Thank you kindly, darlin’,” Jesse lights up his cigarillo, handing the lighter back. “Never thought you would be smoker.”

“I am not,” the man replies quickly. “They are rather useful.”

McCree agrees silently. He smokes placidly, feeling the fabric of his serape brush against the man’s arm when he moves. They are close and Jesse thinks the man will move away if he keeps pushing his shoulder gently against him, but he does not, staying in place without looking at him.

An argument outside begins, voices yelling and screaming in Spanish. He should be worried, really, because he’s been in enough bars to know the yelling outside will end up in a fight. And fights between gang members are never fun.

But there’s also this handsome stranger who won’t even look at him, even though he’s pressing his shoulder against his and slowly invading his personal space. McCree, then, decides he really, really wants to know his name, so he opens his mouth to ask him just to be interrupted by an angry shout. “ _¡Cabrones!_ ”

And just as McCree predicted, everything turns into mayhem in matter of seconds.

Empty glass bottles fly in all directions and McCree barely manages to dodge them. Young gang members start punching indiscriminately whatever and whoever gets in front of them. Jesse drops his cigarillo to the floor, keeping one hand on his head to hold his hat in place.

“Holy shit! We have to get out of here!” Jesse yells hoping the stranger could hear him.

He crosses the word tourist on his mental list of things the stranger could be when he watches him slam a gang member to the floor, hard and effortlessly. Not a tourist. It’s obvious the stranger knows his way through fights, only incapacitating people and not beating the shit out of them. Maybe a cop?

McCree is next to him in a heartbeat, curious and amused. He also has his fair share of people to beat up but doesn’t take his eyes off of the man as he takes down some gang members.

Not a cop. The way the man moves reveals years of training and discipline. But he doesn’t look like a soldier either. McCree knows better than anyone the roughness of the punches and kicks from a soldier. But this man moves like he’s dancing: elegant, graceful. The alarms go blaring again, loud, but McCree can’t bring himself to care.

Who in the hell is this man?

The question just brings pure excitement. McCree always fancied people who could kick his ass.

“Hey, darlin’!” shouts McCree at the stranger. When the man meets his gaze, Jesse’s smile only grows wider. “Care to tell me your name?”

To his absolute delight, the man smirks at him. McCree realizes he looks even more handsome there, in the middle of a fight, panting while trying to make his way out of the bar.

“Not in a million years, cowboy!”

McCree laughs. What a catch! A gorgeous man who could kick his ass is not an everyday sight.

* * *

 

McCree comes back to the same bar the next day, in hopes of talking to the stranger again. This time, the amount of bounty hunters is alarming. All of the seats in the bar are taken by the men in black uniforms. Members of Los Muertos roam outside in his loud bikes and even louder music.

It’s strange because none of them pays attention to McCree even though his bounty is really high. Are they all there for Hanzo? Jesse frowns. Is the tip true?

He walks to the counter, leaning against it to smoke. There are a lot of murmurs around him and Jesse tries to pay attention so he can get a bit of information.

“Mikhail’s group didn’t make it,” a blond man speaks to his other companions. “We found them in the morning. All of them had arrows stuck in their chests.”

“Hanzo’s a sniper,” another man snarls. “I didn’t think people still used arrows.”

“How many did he kill?” asks one.

“Twenty-three. We couldn’t track him. No wonder his bounty is that high.”

“He’s dangerous. He took down twenty-three men in one night? And no one could see his face? I think I’m dropping out. I’m not taking any risks.”

“I heard Los Muertos are trying to catch him too. I mean, I get it, I wouldn’t want someone as skilled and dangerous as him roaming around my territory.”

“We’re doing recon tonight. We believe he fled to the old port. He might be low in ammunition, so this is the perfect time to strike. Who’s coming?”

In his Blackwatch times, McCree never heard of a criminal who could kill twenty-three men in a single night. Not even the most ferocious, violent and cruel criminals could be this devastating. At least not just a single person. Hanzo sounds terrifying, but at the same time, McCree can’t help feeling immensely curious.

And so, he walks towards the leader of the reckon expedition. The man looks at him, surprised.

“You coming too, McCree?” he asks, taking his gun from the table.

“I’m curious, that’s all. I just need to know the way to the old port,” McCree replies, tipping his hat at them. He doesn’t plan in sticking too long anyway.

The man pats him in the back, laughing. “You interested in the money? He doubles your amount, ain’t he?”

“He does,” answers McCree. “But I’m mostly curious on how he managed to wipe the floor with your sorry asses.”

Everyone is staring at him but Jesse has spent enough time underground to know they didn’t take his words as an insult, but rather as a challenge. The leader pats his back again, harder this time. “We’ll see, McCree, we’ll see.”

McCree grins at himself and brushes a thumb around his holster. He has twelve bullets, six loaded already in Peacekeeper. He’s always been unable to back down from a nice challenge, and whoever this Hanzo man was, he already looks like a nice hunt.

The men in the bar take their guns and step outside, in the humid night. Members of Los Muertos look at the hunters and one of them shouts: “ _Oigan, gringos, un grupo nuestro fue a inspeccionar el antiguo puerto, tenemos las coordenadas de donde creemos que Hanzo se está escondiendo_.”

All the hunters around him fall in silence. That’s until the leader of the group clears his throat, confused. “Huh, can you repeat that in English?” he asks, earning mocking laughs from Los Muertos.

“He said one of their groups did a recon earlier and they got the coordinates of where Hanzo might be hidin’,” McCree steps forward, kindly translating what the gang members said.

But the leader frowns. “Can we trust them?”

Jesse shrugs but still keeps taking steps towards the young men. “ _Hey, ¿cómo sabemos que su información no es una trampa?_ ” he yells at Los Muertos, making them laugh again. “ _Habemos varios en el grupo con bastante dinero sobre nuestras cabezas_. [1]”

“Calm down, _vaquero_ , we have no interest in you,” says an older man in a thick accent, probably one of the leaders of Los Muertos. “We want Hanzo out of our territory. A bunch of _pendejos_ like you are our safest bet to get him out of here.”

“You don’t want to get your hands dirty,” replies McCree.

The older man laughs.

“ _Claro que no. Porque primero llegan los caza recompensas y luego llega la policía_ [2]. We don’t have the time to deal with them, not right now,” the old man hands him over an old GPS, grinning. “Take it. We have our own problems searching for 76, we don’t want another one.”

The coordinates on the GPS light a small red point in the map. The old port was abandoned after the Omnic Crisis and now is home of nasty criminals hiding from the police and the UN. A lawless place. McCree gives the GPS to the leader and tips his hat, already retreating back to the group.

“Be careful, _ni siquiera a nosotros nos gusta quedarnos mucho tiempo allí_ ,” warns the old man with a grin. “ _Es un lugar olvidado_. [3]”

The group of bounty hunters seem hesitating. McCree doesn’t blame them. They don’t have enough men and it’s dark. However, the leader of the group waves Los Muertos a goodbye and starts walking towards the road, the only one leading to the old port. Men follow his steps, guns in hand, ready to shoot.

McCree decides to take the rear, a hand near his holster. Twelve bullets. He thinks he can manage if he runs into trouble. He’s been in worse situations after all.

The road is certainly creepy and scary. It goes downhill and after being abandoned for so long, cracks appeared on the pavement making it an irregular footpath. Only their footsteps can be hear and it sets him on edge. It’s dark as hell and the linterns can only light certain portion of the road, so they’re defenseless on the sides. Damnit.

As they approach the old port, McCree can see the destruction the omnics left behind. Old cargo boats on the shore, shards of metal everywhere. The old dock is missing large chunks of its structure, barely standing as a reminder of the war. All of the buildings are grey as the result of a huge fire that spread and never stopped.

The group stops suddenly at the old port’s entrance. “Let’s separate into groups,” proposes the leader, looking not so confident. The hunters are about to protest until he raises a hand. “We have higher chances of survival if we split. If we continue as a group this big, they’ll kill us all.”

McCree nods and the subsequent disagreement between the hunters gives him the perfect opportunity to slip out of the group. He has survived this long thanks to his solitude. Not having a partner makes things easier for him: Jesse doesn’t have to watch anyone’s back, doesn’t have to worry about protecting anyone else but him.

The port is even creepier than the road. McCree whistles and draws Peacekeeper, ready to shoot. It’s a miracle the buildings still standing have lasted this long. They look ready to collapse at any moment. Not a pretty place although he can understand why Hanzo ran here. It takes guts to even walk among the old buildings.

Not even fifteen minutes later, he hears gunshots. They’re far away from him but McCree can hear the screams clearly. “Fuck,” whispers against his serape. Is it safe to return? McCree looks behind his shoulder, darkness devouring his surroundings. It might be, but he’s not willing to take risks.

“Hey, he’s here!” the loud voice on one of the streets makes him jump. “Quick before he escapes!”

 _They found Hanzo_ , thinks McCree and follows the noise into a nearby street. He barely sees men in black knocking down the door with a kick and disappearing into the darkness of the house. Jesse wants to meet Hanzo, the man who took twenty-three men in one night, but his common sense tells him to get the fuck out.

McCree winces, running to the house. Didn’t the curiosity killed the cat but the satisfaction brought it back?

Oddly, when he steps inside, it’s noiseless. The first floor is clear so he climbs the stairs, Peacekeeper in hand.

Jesse is not scared, he’s seen worse as a Blackwatch member, as an ex Deadlock punk, but the anticipation of the danger ahead is never easy. A thin veil of sweat creeps his forehead. Reyes would be disappointed at his small, unsure steps.

As soon as he’s in the corridor of the second floor, McCree is submerged in the absolute darkness. “Fuckin’ hell,” he curses.

Jesse takes a step forward, only to hear something crack and then his foot stomping on something soft. He knows the sensation too well.

A body.

With his metal hand free, he reaches for one of his flashbangs. The corridor is soon illuminated and the dead bodies of three men lay there. All with gunshot wounds.

He continues through the corridor, careful to not step on the bodies. The flashbang dies a minute after, leaving McCree in the darkness again. There’s a single door closed at the end of the corridor and McCree takes a breath of air.

He kicks the door down, effortlessly. The wood goes down without any struggle.

The moonlight enters the room, barely making things visible. On the floor there’s another dead man, except this time he has an arrow stuck in his chest.

Hanzo.

But before he step further to inspect the room, an arrow pass flying his face, landing on the wall, deathly close to his head. A warning.

“Do not move, cowboy,” someone talks to him and the voice soon ignites a thing or two inside of his chest.

The beautiful man steps out of the shadows, revealing a face full of exhaustion. He has a cut on his eyebrow that stopped bleeding long ago, staining his tan skin. His clothes have seen better days, muddy and ripped in one sleeve. He has his arrow and bow ready in spite of the fresh wound on his right arm, still bleeding.

“You’re hurt,” says McCree stupidly.

“Lower your weapon,” barks Hanzo.

McCree does as he says, leaving Peacekeeper on the floor and raising his hands above his head. Hanzo lowers his bow too, making a hiss at his wounded arm.

“Let me help you,” murmurs McCree, pleading.

“Stay where you are, cowboy,” Hanzo hisses. “I _do not_ need your help.”

But he isn’t very convinced as he watches Hanzo slump against the wall to clutch his wound, leaving his bow discarded on the floor.

McCree is next to him, alarmed. He takes Hanzo’s arm to inspect the wound, the other man too tired to swat him away. The wound looks nasty, deep enough to require stitches. McCree lights another flashbang and then he can see the black thread falling apart on the wound. So it wasn’t fresh.

“You got hurt yesterday?” asks McCree. Hanzo only gives him a sharp look as an answer. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I’m always prepared for this kind of thing.”

He takes out a small biotic field from the pocket of his plaid shirt and leaves it near Hanzo, earning a sigh of relief from the other man. And then he searches in the pockets of his jeans, finally finding a small box of thread and needles.

“No,” says Hanzo when he sees McCree disinfecting the needle near the biotic field.

“C’mon, darlin’, I know what I’m doin’,” replies McCree, softly. “Trust me?”

Jesse expects Hanzo to put up a fight, but the other man simply closes his eyes and sighs again, either too tired or too pained to complain. McCree lights another flashbang and places it closely to Hanzo’s arm. He then takes the old black thread out carefully and proceeds to close the wound with his own sloppy stitches.

He’s done this countless of times before. On himself, on his teammates, on strangers. Even on Reyes when he passed out and medical assistance was miles away. Hanzo only groans as a complain but doesn’t move.

“Done,” announces McCree ripping a piece of his shirt to bandage Hanzo’s arm. Hanzo frowns at the sound of the fabric being torn apart but doesn’t say anything. With expertise hands, McCree wraps his injured arm and gives it a small pat when he accommodates it on Hanzo’s lap.

And then he sits next to Hanzo waiting for the small biotic field to run out. McCree slightly pushes his shoulder against Hanzo’s, feeling the nice warmth there. They stay silent for a while, until Hanzo puts something on his lap.

“Wh—?” his fingers recognize the solid form, a hip flask.

“It’s sake,” says Hanzo.

McCree snorts. “Do you always carry around a hip flask?”

“Do you always carry around a sew kit?” retorts Hanzo and McCree lets a huff of laugh. “Drink.”

McCree obeys and drinks from the hip flask. The alcohol is strong but smooth on his throat. Not quite as good as his favorite whisky but it will do for tonight. The sake warms up his stomach, and McCree takes two sips more before passing the hip flask back to Hanzo.

“Did you kill those men?” asks Jesse, leaning his head against the wall.

“I did not,” murmurs Hanzo. “I only killed four. The rest of them started betraying their groups and shooting at each other. This night happened the same. They all killed their comrades.”

McCree nods, looking at the dead man on the floor. And sighs. “You’re worth a fortune, darlin’. No wonder they started killing each other.”

Hanzo huffs, sarcastic. “Are you here for my bounty too?”

“Oh, no, sugar,” replies McCree, grinning. “I’m here just to have a good time.”

Hanzo doesn’t reply and the silence comes back. It’s a nice silence, though. It’s quiet and calm. Omitting, of course, the fact that they are in the middle of a really dangerous place and neither of them know if there are still bounty hunters out there.

“We can’t stay the night here,” says Jesse, drowsiness getting ahold of him. He was getting old after all, the adrenaline living his blood. “We need to go.”

Hanzo almost laughs. “I am not going anywhere with you. I do not trust you, cowboy.”

“You only had one arrow, darlin’,” begins McCree tipping slightly his hat. “And a wounded arm. I could’ve taken you down anytime.”

“You would not be fast enough,” snarls Hanzo.

“You wasted an arrow to give me a warnin’. You could’ve killed me and you didn’t. Sugar, just let me help you for now,” whispers McCree and in the darkness he can feel the inquisitive gaze of Hanzo burning a hole in his face. He expects the other man to retort something else but the archer gets awfully silent.

“Why would you help a complete stranger like me?” asks Hanzo with an indecipherable emotion in his voice.

“When I was seventeen, the kindness of a stranger saved my life. It was a bizarre kindness though. But he gave me a choice, something I never had before. Since then I’ve been tryin’ to do the right thing, even if that means I get to help a handsome fella like you,” McCree can hear Hanzo huff again, maybe trying to hide a chuckle.

“Very well, cowboy,” concedes Hanzo. “How do we get out? How big was your group?”

“We were ten people. Uh, nine if you don’t count me in. Minus the four you took out. Though, I can say they wouldn’t stay too long in a place like this. So maybe five reimainin’? We still can take the road to Dorado.”

“Good. I only have one sonic arrow and a normal one. I will shoot the sonic arrow to the opposite building and then we wait,” Hanzo speaks, his voice returning to the same tone he used with McCree the day before in the bar. “Do you still have bullets, cowman?”

“Twelve,” grins McCree. “And three flashbangs. I think we can make it, darlin’.”

Hanzo sighs. “Let’s go, McCree. I will be watching your back.”

* * *

 

Hanzo frowns yet again, for the thirteenth time in less than four hours. His arm has been properly bandaged again with real bandages and even McCree found him an arm sling. So he’s now just sitting on the edge of McCree’s bed, trying to polish his bow without any success.

“Do you think there are still hunters in the town?” asks Hanzo, giving up on his bow and mumbling something about making arrows.

McCree takes Peacekeeper out of his holster and puts it on the nightstand. Then, he removes his chaps and spurs. “There are always bounty hunters in places like this because there’s always someone on the run, y’know.”

“You are also a wanted man,” says Hanzo throwing a look over his shoulder. McCree looks back at him and lets out a giggle.

“I’ve been a wanted man since I was seventeen,” and then a grin. “I manage pretty well, darlin’.”

“I bet you do,” replies Hanzo with something acid in his tone. Sarcasm. “Walking right into a bar full of bounty hunters? By yourself?”

Hanzo’s words leave him out of breath. And something inside of his chest hurts, a very well-known feeling. “You were watchin’ me.”

Attraction. McCree realizes he cannot take his eyes off of Hanzo even when he breaks eye contact.

“It is hard to miss the red…” Hanzo trails off and points at McCree’s serape around his shoulders. “What it is called?”

“Serape,” informs McCree.

“Hard to miss the red serape,” finishes Hanzo. “And the hat. And your bounty poster pasted on the wall of _Wanted_ _Criminals_.”

“Aw, shucks, darlin’, and here I was thinkin’ you liked me,” snorts McCree, amused at Hanzo’s sharp sense of humor.

But Hanzo falls silent, quickly turning around. Jesse’s grin gets bigger and he decides to push his luck just a bit more.

“I _did_ watch you,” McCree confesses sliding across the bed to get closer to the archer. “You’re the prettiest fella I’ve ever seen.”

He even dares to trace a finger against Hanzo’s black shirt, making slow circles against the fabric. Surprisingly, Hanzo allows the contact and doesn’t move but doesn’t speak either. McCree’s fingers run down the archer’s back, his well-defined muscles burning fire in Jesse’s tips, craving always a bit more.

He’s about to ask if he can go further, his fingers aching to touch Hanzo’s neck and arms, but the archer interrupts McCree and makes him close his mouth. “Do not call me ‘darling’.”

“Then what’d you like?” teases McCree, leaning closer to Hanzo, feeling the warmth of his body against his hand. “Honey? Sugar? Sunshine? Sweet pea? Sweetheart? Puddin’?”

“Please, stop,” whispers Hanzo and Jesse can practically feel him wincing. He laughs. “You may call me Hanzo. Just Hanzo.”

“Hanzo,” repeats Jesse, the word rolling in his tongue freely. It feels nice. His name feels nice in his mouth. And he almost misses Hanzo’s shudder when McCree calls his name.

“Beautiful,” the gunslinger murmurs. His nose is dangerously close to Hanzo’s shoulder, the nice scent of incense and something musky tempting him to not just run his fingers across the shirt.

“Are you trying to bed me, cowboy?” Hanzo huffs. “That is why you helped me?”

McCree frowns and sighs. “Now, Hanzo, I helped you ‘cause I thought it was the right thing to do. And just in case you missed it, I’ve been flirtin’ with you all this time just ‘cause I think you’re gorgeous.”

Hanzo does react at that and sputters, surprised. “What?”

“Gotta be honest with you, darlin’, that’s all,” McCree smirks. “Oh, whoops, no darlin’, right? Just Hanzo.”

Hanzo, after a few minutes, huffs and moves away, McCree’s hand dragging across the mattress when his support is gone. The archer looks impassible, moving to take a one of the pillows from the bed. Realization hits McCree.

“You don’t plan in sleepin’ on the floor, right?” Jesse makes a face at the way Hanzo dismiss him and still takes the pillow from the bed, analyzing the room for the best corner to sleep in. “You’re hurt, take the bed.”

“I have slept in worse places with even worse injuries, I will manage,” replies Hanzo, deadpan.

“I’m sure you have. I’ve done it too. It’s not really nice,” Hanzo huffs again at this, settling on a corner next to the door. McCree sighs. “Just take the bed, Hanzo. It’s big enough for the two of us.”

“Forget it, cowboy,” replies Hanzo putting the pillow behind his head so it won’t collide with the cold concrete. “Good night.”

“You’re such a stubborn ass, y’know,” McCree takes his serape off his shoulders and squats in front of Hanzo to wrap him with it. Hanzo makes an alarmed noise, like a squeak, and he’s about to protest when Jesse speaks again. “Just take it.”

Hanzo clutches the red fabric and frowns. “It smells like smoke and sweat.”

“Well, darlin’, you wouldn’t take the bed, so…”

“Not darlin’.”

“Not cowboy, then,” Jesse grins. “You know my name.”

“McCree.”

“Hanzo,” McCree turns off the lamp on the nightstand eliciting a grunt from Hanzo. “If your arm starts hurtin’, there’s always room for another person in my bed. Good night, _Hanzo_.”

* * *

 

McCree doesn’t get his hopes too high for when he wakes up. A part of him really, really wants Hanzo to stick up even though his injuries are treated and bandaged. But that’s as far as his dream goes. Reality is cold and he knows Hanzo is another wanderer, just like him. He knows solitude does wonders for people like him: it keeps them alive. He doesn’t owe anything to McCree and doesn’t really have a reason to stay.

So when something soft hits him in the face and the sunlight burns his pupils, McCree doesn’t know whether to be surprised or incredibly pleased.

“Good mornin’, sunshine, didn’t hear you comin’,” says McCree, voice groggy from sleep.

His hat is what hit him earlier and McCree puts it aside to look at Hanzo, who is watching him from above with an expression full of amusement.

“Does your hair always look like this?” he can almost hear Hanzo’s _mock_ in his words. McCree groans and sits up.

“Are you always an asshole to people who just woke up?” Jesse retorts and Hanzo rolls his eyes.

“I brought you breakfast,” Hanzo says and throws him a paper bag. McCree looks at him inquisitively, earning nothing but a huff.

But then, something sweet assaults his nose. McCree opens the bag and gasps. _Conchas, churros, cuernitos, orejas_. “Jesus Christ, Hanzo, _¿fuiste a la panadería sólo por esto?_ [4]” exclaims, promptly taking a concha and shoving his face in the sweet bread.

He _moans_. It’s been years since he had a concha. He takes another bite and truth to be told, his eyes water. Jesse McCree, ex Blackwatch agent, gunslinger, a grown ass man, almost crying because he missed conchas so much.

“Are you crying?” asks Hanzo, perplexed.

“Yes,” says McCree sniffing. “I just— I… Here, have a bite,” he offers his second concha to Hanzo and the archer looks reluctantly at the bread. He does take a small bite, barely taking the sugar topping. He chews for a few moments and swallows.

“It is too sweet for my liking,” Hanzo declares. “But not bad.”

“But, Hanzo, how did you know about the _panadería_ and what to buy?” asks McCree, finishing his concha and taking a churro from the bag.

“I was buying materials to make my arrows when I saw a couple of kids bickering over a concha. I offered to buy each one a concha if they told me their recommendations and helped me order at the… what did you call it? _Panadería_ ,” replies Hanzo, looking somewhat embarrassed.

“Damn, I haven’t had one of these in years,” McCree says, his expression softening. “Thank you a lot, Hanzo.”

The archer won’t meet his gaze, eyes wandering around the room. McCree smirks. “No, I… Thank you for helping me yesterday.”

“It was nothing, Hanzo,” Jesse feels something warm spreading through his chest.

Hanzo looks magnificent against the morning sunlight. Tall, strong, his chiseled features creating shadows against his skin. Jesse doesn’t realize Hanzo has long eyelashes until the sun hits his eyes. The gunslinger is lost, not knowing what to do with the pure, raw attraction bubbling inside of him.

“You are getting crumbles everywhere, McCree,” Hanzo reminds him and Jesse snaps out of his thoughts.

“I, uh, shit,” McCree lifts the paper back so the sugar and crumbles would stop falling to the floor. “Glad you decided to stay, I thought you’d be gone when I woke up.”

Hanzo almost chuckles. “I am here in Dorado for a purpose. I did not stay for you.”

“But you could,” proposes McCree winking comically at him, expecting not to be taken seriously.

He gets flustered too when Hanzo’s face gets red all of sudden. And now both of them are embarrassed, because McCree is all bark and no bite when it comes to his flirty jokes. But, goddamn, if Hanzo didn’t look adorable, that nice shade of red complimenting his cute frown.

McCree clears his throat, trying to dissipate the awkward atmosphere.

“Did you get everythin’ you needed?” when Hanzo looks at him, questioning, Jesse clarifies. “For your arrows, I mean.”

“Yes. It will take a while to make them, but If I hurry up, they will be ready by the evening,” answers Hanzo, leaving his plastic bags in the floor to start working on his arrows.

McCree takes the paper bag and puts it in the nightstand. He takes another plaid shirt from the small bag containing his belongings and searches for his discarded jeans from last night. While doing so, a question pops up in his mind.

“What are you doin’ here in Dorado, Hanzo?” he asks.

Jesse can feel the reluctance coming from Hanzo. He throws a glance over his shoulder, only to see him working skillfully on his arrows.

After a while, he answers. “I came for an informer. Sombra.”

McCree is surprised to hear that name again. Sombra. The best underground informer. Jesse finishes dressing up and walks to Hanzo.

“I heard about ‘em the night I met you. They’re gettin’ pretty infamous in the underground, ain’t they?”

“Yes,” replies Hanzo, not looking up. “At first I thought they were part of Los Muertos, but Sombra is just using them as a façade to contact potential clients. I do not know their true affiliation but… They are dangerous, whoever they are. Their information is not something you get just by being a snitch in the underground.”

“I see,” McCree himself has rubbed shoulders with the underground people enough time to know this Sombra informer is not someone to be taken lightly. “Can I ask you somethin’, Hanzo?”

“No,” replies dryly the archer.

But McCree asks anyway.

“What kinda information you need to seek for Sombra’s services?”

Hanzo stops what he’s doing but looks unfazed by the question. McCree expects Hanzo to not answer and just tell him to fuck off but he, surprinsingly, does not.

“I need a location,” his words are full of honesty and there’s a hint underneath of something. Pain? Guilty?

McCree blinks, astounded. Not what he expected. But again, Hanzo, so far, has never fitted into McCree’s expectations.

“A… location?”

Hanzo purses his lips, frowning again. “I am… searching for someone. I am trying to make things right this time.”

“Ah,” whispers Jesse. “You’re pursuin’ an old lover?”

Hanzo makes the most comical face at his words. Wrong. McCree wants to laugh at the disgust of his face.

“Alright, darlin’, no need to try to kill me with your glare,” McCree chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m here for an informer too, although I already got the information I wanted.”

Hanzo clicks his tongue. “Do you still have unfinished business?”

“No. I’m stayin’ ‘cause you’re real fun, y’know?” Hanzo glares at him again and Jesse lifts his hands. “I mean it. My appointment can wait if it means I get to save your pretty face again.”

Hanzo huffs and McCree laughs. He doesn’t miss, however, the lovely shade of pink in Hanzo’s cheeks and that just makes him smile more.

* * *

 

Hanzo kicks him out after three hours. McCree tries to look offended but gives up when Hanzo closes the door right in his face.

“I’ll be back soon, darlin’!” he shouts so the archer will hear. Unfortunately, he cannot hear Hanzo’s sarcastic reply, so McCree exits the old hotel he’s staying at.

The hotel is an old building, a hacienda dating back from the Spanish Colonization. He guesses the original design is the only thing remaining after all these years, especially after the Omnic Crisis. The owner, a nice old man, speaks to him in rapid Spanish.

“ _Jesse, qué agradable es verte de nuevo_ , [5]” the man says, smiling weakly at him.

McCree tips his hat. “ _Don Pedro, es bueno estar de vuelta_. [6]”

The old man nods. Jesse remembers him. The second time he was in Dorado, Reyes introduced him as an acquaintance from his days as a cadet. The man apparently served the Mexican militia, only retiring a couple years after Overwatch’s foundation. Bought the damaged hacienda with his savings and started the hotel. Reyes had patted him hard on the back, saying: “kid, if you ever run into trouble around here, make sure you find don Pedro. Gangs won’t even dare set up a foot here.”

“ _Vi a un hombre asiático subir en la mañana, dijo que era amigo tuyo_ ,” confides him don Pedro with a sharp look in his eyes. “ _No lucía como un miembro de Los Muertos, así que lo dejé pasar._ [7]”

“Oh,” McCree can feel his grin widening. A friend. If only. “ _Sí, es mi aliado_. [8] A real looker, ain’t he?”

Don Pedro laughs at this. “ _¿Estás aquí por negocios o sólo de visita?_ [9]”

McCree considers his answer for a while. That’s the question for: what brings you here? So he takes a chance. If Reyes trusted him, then he might as well.

“ _Don Pedro, ¿puedo preguntarle algo?_ [10]” Jesse leans closer to the old man.

The owner of the hotel suddenly gets all serious. His expression changes, from affable to something dangerous, like an old guardian dog. He looks around, at the empty lobby and finally settles down.

“ _¿Qué pasó, vaquero?_ [11]”

“ _¿Sabe algo sobre este informante nuevo llamado Sombra?_ ” McCree murmurs. “ _Escuché algo en Calaveras directo de otro informante. Dijo que Sombra se está volviendo bastante famoso en el bajo mundo. Nos ayudaría mucho a mí y a mi compañero si sabe algo, lo que sea._ [12]”

The old man tenses up. McCree notices but doesn’t move, waiting for an answer. The man looks at him, frowning, and then starts moving behind his desk.

“ _Sígueme_ , [13]” he orders, walking towards a door with a sign that read ‘ _acceso a empleados_ ’. The man pushes slightly the door and McCree follows him inside the room.

There’s a cracked computer screen and a little keyboard on a single table. The room only has the computer and a foldable blue chair. The grey walls have damp patches all over, paint peeling from the concrete.

The old man starts his computer, lots of files popping out immediately. He turns his chair and gestures McCree to get closer.

On the screen there’s a file written in Spanish. “ _He estado rastreándola por bastante tiempo. Cuando Los Muertos se hicieron de armas militares de la nada, sospeché que alguien bastante inteligente estaba detrás de ellos. Así que investigué,_ ” McCree can read on the file something about Talon and a new recruit. A hacker with impressive abilities. Name: unknown. Age: 30. Alias: Sombra. “ _Es una hacker al servicio de Talon. Esa es Sombra. ¿Pero la persona antes de la hacker? Nada, no hay ni un sólo rastro de su pasado._ [14]”

“That’s weird,” admits McCree. Even Overwatch couldn’t erase the bounty Deadlock put on his head. McCree frowns. Hanzo wouldn’t be too pleased to hear his informer is a Talon agent. “ _¿Alguna pista de por qué está vendiendo información a pesar de que está con Talon?_ [15]”

“ _Ninguna. Quizás sea para financiar las propias operaciones de Talon_ ,” the old man returns to the screen. “ _¿Qué necesitas de Sombra? No estoy exactamente seguro si la información que ofrece es confiable, pero sé que ha filtrado videos confidenciales de Overwatch y eso ya es suficiente para aumentar puntos en el bajo mundo._ [16]”

“ _Mi compañero necesita una locación, unas coordenadas_ ,” says McCree. “ _No me dijo a dónde quiere llegar, pero si está dispuesto a pagar lo que pide Sombra, entonces debe ser algo difícil de encontrar._ [17]”

An image pops up, the headline reading: reward, 130,000,000. Hanzo. McCree clicks his tongue. This old man is sharp as hell.

“A real looker,” repeats the man his words with a thick accent. “ _Las noticias corren como pólvora en el bajo mundo, McCree. ¿Dónde lo encontraste?_ [18]”

“Drinkin’ in a bar,” Jesse grins. “ _¿Dónde más?_ [19]”

The man laughs, closing the image. McCree sighs of relief.

“ _Si él es tu aliado, entonces también es el mío_ ,” he assures McCree. “ _No te preocupes, McCree, ya estoy muy viejo como para creerme un caza recompensas._ [20]”

“ _Gracias_ ,” McCree says softly and the man’s expression stops being so serious. “ _Hablaré con Hanzo acerca de Sombra. Gracias por la información y por… dejarnos quedarnos aquí._ [21]”

The man pats his back. “ _No hay de qué. Le estaría faltando a mi palabra a Gabriel si no te ayudo._ [22]”

McCree’s grin turns into a sad smile. The name still hunts his memories. Oh, Gabe, the only person he would follow into hell without even looking back and he was still protecting his ass even after death.

If Jack Morrison was the golden boy, the commander saving innocent lives, Reyes was nothing more than the grim reaper leading entire armies into their graves.

* * *

 

McCree knocks the door of his own hotel room twice. At the third knock, Hanzo opens the door, annoyance written all over his face.

“Hanzo, I’m bringin’ you good and bad news,” he announces, chirpy, and steps inside.

Hanzo is still not finished with his arrows. Obviously. He looks at McCree, exasperated, only increasing the cowboy’s amusement.

“Speak, cowboy,” commands Hanzo.

“Alright, alright,” McCree seats on the border of the bed, taking his hat off so he can stop sweating thanks to the humid heat. “I talked with an old acquaintance. He’s well versed in how the underground moves, so I asked him about Sombra. Whaddaya want to listen to first: the bad news or the good news?”

“Whatever,” Hanzo rolls his eyes.

“The bad news it is then,” McCree makes sure Hanzo’s looking at him and takes the chance to meet his eyes, not missing the imperceptible flinch when he does it. “Sombra is a Talon agent. No one knows if her information is trustworthy.”

Hanzo raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “Talon? The terrorist organization?”

“Yeah, real nasty. They like to murder civilians and turn innocent people into cruel assassins. The whole deal,” Jesse nods, suddenly remembering about Widowmaker, a cold shudder running into him. He thinks about the mercenary that turns into black smoke, the deadly sniper and now, the anonymous hacker holding one or two cards to her favor.

Hanzo crosses his arms. “Is it risky to contact Sombra?”

“Now, Hanzo, here comes the good news,” McCree manages to smirk. “Y’know, the underground has no rules. We ain’t tied by the good or the bad. You can contact her and pay her price, get your location and get out.”

“Those are the good news?” huffs Hanzo, sarcastic.

“And I’ll be coverin’ your back,” continues McCree ignoring Hanzo’s earlier interruption. “As long as we’re in the same town. I’ll protect you while you search for Sombra.”

Silence makes presence in the room, McCree refusing to stop looking at Hanzo. And Hanzo glaring black, unfazed by his proposal. The stay still for a while, neither of them moving nor stepping back. Jesse licks his lips and Hanzo squints at him.

“What is your price, cowboy?” Hanzo breaks the silence, finally, with a question that is both an opportunity and a proposal.

“I don’t have a price,” replies McCree standing up and getting closer to Hanzo. He hears the archer’s breath hitch. “But you can pay me back with whatever you think my services are worth.”

Hanzo looks at him, dead in the eye. A stray black lock hair falls around his face and McCree, softly, tucks it behind his ear.

“Why are you so willing to help me?”

“I’m interested in Sombra’s movements,” he replies, the thumb of his right hand exploring the neatly trim beard of Hanzo. “And I’m interested in you, darlin’.”

* * *

 

Hanzo’s full set of arrows is finished by the evening. He promptly explains to McCree about his scatter arrow and his sonic arrow, Jesse looking mildly intrigued by the scatter one.

“Make sure you do not get caught by the scatter arrow,” says Hanzo. “I cannot fully control the trajectory of the fragments once the arrow hits the wall.”

“Gotcha,” smiles McCree. “I wouldn’t like endin’ this night with an arrow into my throat.”

“Very well,” says Hanzo putting away his arrows. “What is the plan for tonight? Are we returning to Calaveras?”

“Sombra is usin’ Los Muertos as a façade to get clients from the underground so yeah, we need to go back. They all gather there,” McCree wraps his serape around his shoulders, his nose catching a foreign scent in the so familiar fabric. Incense. He’s close to sniffing the weak fragrance when Hanzo interrupts him.

“I cannot bring my bow there. They will know who I am. I will be defenseless,” frowns Hanzo, not happy at the prospect of being unable to fight back.

But McCree pats his shoulder, amicably.

“I’ll be coverin’ you, partner, don’t forget,” Hanzo looks at him, full of irony and McCree laughs, delighted. “Yeah, _partner_.”

Hanzo cringes and ignores the gunslinger while hiding a small blade in his black pants. For a moment, McCree can see a delicious strip of firm muscle and suppresses a low whistle. “Let’s go,” says Hanzo, finally, not noticing the attentive gaze of McCree.

“Yeah, of course.”

* * *

 

McCree taps his fingers on the old wooden table. There are scratches of nails, of knives, of broken glasses across the table, on the edges, even suspicious splotches of unknown liquids. Hanzo, right in front of him, looks bored at best.

There are three bounty hunters, four informers and twenty-eight members of Los Muertos in the bar. The bounty hunters keep stealing glances at McCree, none of them daring to approach him. Hanzo is impassible, keeping an eye out on Los Muertos.

“Do you think the hunters are a threat?” asks Hanzo in a low voice.

“Not really. They may follow us when we go out but we can lose ‘em easily,” replies McCree in the same tone Hanzo used. “Is there any high-rankin’ among Los Muertos?”

“I see two,” McCree follows Hanzo’s gaze to two members of the gang. One tall and buff, the other one way too drunk to even walk straight. “We might have a chance with the first one.”

Jesse nods. “Alright. You stay here. I’ll do the talkin’,” when Hanzo looks clearly displeased at the plan, McCree clarifies. “I’ll buy him a beer, I bet he’ll be more willing to talk if I speak to him in Spanish.”

“I am coming with you,” announces Hanzo getting up. “If something goes wrong, say _ryuu_ and I will create a distraction so we can escape.”

“’Ryuu’? Is it like our safe word?” asks McCree, winking an eye at Hanzo, who huffs like an annoyed parent to a joke his kid who just discovered what sex is told him.

“It means dragon in Japanese,” the old bartender hands over a cold beer to Hanzo, an especial Mexican brew McCree hadn’t seen in years. The archer gives the beer to Jesse and pushes him slightly forward with the palm of his hand against his shoulder. “Go.”

McCree does as Hanzo say, with the archer practically behind his heels. Young members of Los Muertos look at him, wary, ready to draw their guns at any wrong move. One of the leaders, the tall and buff one, whips his head at McCree when he hears the spurs jingling getting closer. The leader obviously recognizes him and does not spare a glance at Hanzo, kind of hidden behind his wide back.

“ _McCree, ¿qué te trae de nuevo por aquí?_ [23]” the man asks. “Thought you had finished business around here.”

McCree only grins as response. He hands over the beer to the gang member and the man receives it with a low whistle in appreciation. “ _Mi padre solía beber de estas_. [24] They’re expensive.”

“We need information,” McCree pauses and looks around, wary as well. “ _Necesitamos contactar a Sombra._ [25]”

Los Muertos erupt in loud laughs, like mad hyenas. Everyone is looking at him, even the usual taciturn informers. The leader is laughing so hard he’s crying, clutching his stomach, and careful to not spill the beer while he wipes his tears away.

 “ _¿Quieres contactar a Sombra, eh, vaquero?_ ” he mocks. “ _¿Qué clase de información necesitas?_ [26]”

McCree throws a look over his shoulder, questioning Hanzo. The archer nods slightly, giving him permission to reveal what type of service they need. “ _Necesitamos una locación._ [27]”

The leader takes a sip from his beer, grunting of pleasure at the cold liquid. He seems to think about McCree’s words for a while.

“We all need something in this world. Information, money, protection. What makes you think you’re any special?” asks the gang member, trying to intimidate both McCree and Hanzo.

But he knows better than anyone how things move around in the underground. It’s his shelter, has always been. So McCree grins, widely, not showing his cards this soon.

“ _La petición está hecha. Estaremos esperando la respuesta de Sombra_ , [28]” says McCree and the gang leader visibly flinches, not expecting his words at all.

“ _No, no, ¡de eso no se trata!_ ” he yells, grabbing McCree by the shoulder when he tries to turn around, throwing his beer on accident, the glass making a loud crack on the floor. “ _¡Tienes que dar algo a cambio! Sombra no hace tratos así._ [29]”

Hanzo tenses up, alarmed at the sudden threat of the gang member. The rest of Los Muertos also watch the scene, startled. But McCree is quicker than the other man, unclutching the hand from his serape and turning around, fast. The man stumbles back, his hand caught in McCree’s metal one.

Every single of Los Muertos stand up, hands on their guns. Hanzo looks alarmed but he doesn’t reveal anything else, taking a step towards McCree, protectively.

Jesse reaches for the collar of the man with his flesh hand and fists the fabric of his shirt. “Listen to me, kiddo,” grunts McCree, lowering the tone of his voice. “ _He estado aquí más tiempo que tú. Sombra no es ninguna idiota, sé que trabaja para Talon y ustedes son un elemento que puede ser fácilmente descartado._ [30]” McCree looks him dead in the eye. “Don’t try to threaten me again, I don’t play by the rules.”

McCree releases the man and the gang leader stumbles back, ungracefully. One of the younger members catches him before he crashes into one of the tables. Hanzo gets closer to his back, getting ready in case a fight breaks out.

But the offended gang member just huffs, indignantly. He then proceeds to glare at them. “Get the fuck out of our bar,” the man barks, and McCree doesn’t need to be told twice.

Jesse pushes Hanzo by the shoulder, the archer not resisting. They both walk towards the exit, awfully wary of their surroundings. Hanzo leans his head back. “Do you think they will follow us?” he whispers near the gunslinger ear. An inappropriate shudder goes down his back and McCree can’t help smiling despite the dangerous situation they’re in.

“I don’t know. If they do, will lose ‘em in the town’s alleys,” McCree whispers back. “When we go out, just follow what I do.”

McCree shoves the door with his metal arm, still pushing Hanzo forward. The door creaks behind them and the gunslinger pulls his chest closer to Hanzo’s back, his hand moving towards the inner part of the archer’s powerful left arm.

They quickly walk into the dark road, the neon graffitis of warning looking like flashes of color while they speed up.

“They are following us,” murmurs Hanzo, hardly out of breath even though they ran a large stretch of the road to the town.

“Fuck,” pants McCree. He’s getting old, tired, and he probably should stop smoking. The colorful downtown of Dorado can be seen at the distance, not too far away.

The steps behind them are barely audible. Jesse throws a glance over his shoulder, catching the sight of a big rifle and two pairs of combat boots. So they weren’t from Los Muertos. There are two of the three bounty hunters from earlier. And they weren’t that good because even McCree was able to sense their presence right away.

“Alright, darlin’, let’s run,” pants McCree again, dragging Hanzo by the arm and sprinting to the first black alley he sees. Then he practically shoves Hanzo into the nearest wall he can find.

The darkness soon engulfs both of them and the steps come closer. Hanzo’s back is pressing against the cold wall, while McCree is bended in a weird angle against Hanzo’s chest. The gunslinger swears to himself, to God, to whoever is watching him, that he’s not enjoying having to lean his hands on Hanzo for support.

The steps trail off far away from them. McCree sighs. Bad hunters with big weapons are never a threat. His fingers accidentally run down from Hanzo’s shirt, feeling the strong muscles along their way.

What is he, a teenager who can’t keep his hands to himself?

But Hanzo doesn’t complain, allowing the faint touch. McCree is tempted to touch underneath the black fabric but stops himself, lowering his gaze to ask for permission first.

The dark makes everything harder because he isn’t sure if Hanzo is blushing or not. But he does meet the archer’s eyes. A prideful stare, fitting of a king. Hanzo knows his worth and won’t settle for anything less. McCree runs his thumb along the high cheekbones of the archer. He wants to say something, anything.

Hanzo knows his worth. But he has a sad expression whenever he thinks no one is watching. And McCree knows better than that. Is the face of a man burdened by ancient ghosts and regrets. Jesse trails his face with the tip of his fingers, his touch is not rejected and warmth spreads through his chest.

McCree is pretty sure he feels attraction for this man. He’s interested in Hanzo’s skills, in the way he acts in dangerous situations, in his sharp glare and his even sharper, darker sense of humor. He likes the way Hanzo is honest, direct, pretends not to care, but deep down he’s a soft man. McCree has been watching too. Carefully.

It’s not love but it could be.

And maybe Hanzo feels the same attraction because a man like him is unattainable for someone like McCree. He’s so lucky Hanzo even looks at him and calls him by his name.

They don’t get along well as strangers, but as friends? As a team?

As lovers?

In the dark, McCree asks for permission, licking his lips. He doesn’t know what he wants from Hanzo. A kiss? A punch right in the face? An arrow to the chest? He tells himself anything is fine as long as it’s from the gorgeous man in front of him.

But the archer has other plans, placing a firm hand in Jesse’s chest to get some distance. McCree allows it, greediness running through his veins. “We should go back,” says Hanzo, oddly soft.

“Yeah, right,” murmurs McCree, taking small steps backwards. He is, after all, a patient man. He doesn’t want to push Hanzo’s limits, because he could either kick his ass or run away. Or both.

However, the small smirk Hanzo gives him as soon as they step out of the shadows, makes funny things inside his chest. Jesse brings his metal hand close to his heart and sighs dramatically.

“Oh, my achy breaky heart might blow up and kill this man.”

* * *

 

Hanzo grunts. “I have slept in worse places. _You_ take the bed.”

But McCree doesn’t back up, frowning. “Now, you’re still injured. And you slept on the floor yesterday. It’s your turn to take the bed.”

Hanzo huffs.

“I do not need your concern.”

“I’m tryin’ to be kind here, you stubborn ass.”

Hanzo huffs again, sarcastic this time. “Do not bother. I will sleep on the floor, just give me a pillow.”

“You’re being real difficult right now, darlin’.”

“Do not call me ‘darling’.”

“Whatever. I’ll sleep on the floor because my mamá taught me to be kind and didn’t raise me in a fuckin’ barn,” McCree says emphatically and sits on the same corner Hanzo slept the day before. He gets rid of his boots and chaps and wraps around him his red serape, ready to ignore any objections Hanzo might still have.

Hanzo grunts. “That is my spot.”

“It’s mine now, darlin’,” replies McCree, placing his hat against his face so he could pretend to ignore Hanzo.

But the archer slumps against him in an effort to drive McCree out of his corner. However, Jesse doesn’t move and even pretends to snore all while Hanzo hits him repeatedly with his shoulder.

After fifteen minutes, Hanzo stops his attacks and simply sighs. McCree hears the soft thump when he leans his head against the wall.

“I know you are awake, McCree,” whispers Hanzo.

“It’s rude to wake up someone who just fell asleep,” teases McCree placing his hat on his lap. He then looks at Hanzo and gets surprised to see him so relaxed, eyes closed and the usual frown on his face nowhere to be seen.

McCree takes his serape and wraps it around Hanzo too. It’s big enough for both of them anyway. Hanzo doesn’t say anything, only humming when the pleasant warmth embraces him too.

“I have been travelling alone for so many years, always hoping to die,” the archer doesn’t move and his voice sounds tired. McCree knows that tone so well, he has heard it so many times in the past. In Gabriel, in Jack, in his Blackwatch comrades. “There have always been assassins and bounty hunters behind me, and I almost gave up on fighting them, on driving them away. I craved death as a warrior when I only deserved the death of a sinner.”

Hanzo presses against his shoulder and McCree pats his thigh above the serape in silent comfort. The archer sighs. “I have been running away for too long and I am tired of it.”

“Been there, darlin’,” whispers McCree. “It’s hard to get some resemblance of what your life was before everythin’ went to shit.”

Hanzo nods. “Every year, on the same day, I go back to the place I once called home. I think I only lived through all these years to go back to pray, to seek some kind of relief. It is what kept me on living.”

McCree looks at the window on the opposite side of the room, waiting for Hanzo to continue. He wants to comfort him with sweet words but Hanzo is neither seeking solace nor empathy. It’s not his place to step in. And the only thing he can do is to stay silent.

“But now I have a chance to redeem myself, my honor, my life,” murmurs Hanzo. “I do not have to go back to who I used to be. I do not have to look back.”

Redemption. McCree knows it too well, searching for his own even now, twenty years later. Jesse closes his eyes, hearing Hanzo’s breathing beside him.

At the end, both of them fall asleep slumped together, McCree’s cheek against the top of Hanzo’s head, fingers too close, wanting to be touched.

* * *

 

McCree wakes up when he hears footsteps outside of his door. Hanzo wakes up with a jump, both untangling their limbs and getting on their feet in no time.

The footsteps trail off soon after and McCree takes his revolver, just in case an enemy decides to show up when he opens the door.

To his surprise, there’s nobody outside waiting to put a bullet in his head. He exchanges confused looks with Hanzo, who is near the window, drawing his bow.

Instead, Jesse finds a small envelope with a pink skull on the front. The skull looks similar to the ones of Los Muertos, although it is way too sophisticated to be from the gang. Hanzo lowers his bow and gets closer to look at the envelope, wary.

“Want to open it?” McCree asks.

Hanzo takes the envelope and tears the paper. A small card falls to the floor.

 _¿Cuál es tu precio, vaquero?_ [31], it reads.

Jesse starts laughing and Hanzo looks at him, puzzled.

“We got your informer, handsome,” announces McCree with a grin.

 

 

* * *

 

“It looks legit,” Hanzo folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “Then why is it encrypted?”

“I bet she likes to be dramatic,” jokes McCree leaning over the hotel owner and looking at the cracked computer screen being filled with black tabs.

Don Pedro grunts something about his poor old computer but keeps working on the software he’s using to decrypt the content of the envelope. His fingers type furiously on the keyboard, trying to keep up with the new codes the program gives him.

McCree’s knowledge in technology is quite limited. He knows how to use a comm, how to give proper maintenance to Peacekeeper and fabricate his flashbangs. And that’s it. Reyes once tried to teach him how to disarm a bomb ‘just in case’, the lesson ending in Jack chiding them about the damaged practice room.

The old man impressively keeps up with the decrypting program only pausing to sigh and check his own codes. After thirty minutes, the screen goes completely black, shutting off. Hanzo tenses up and McCree starts panicking, the old man being the only one calm.

Almost immediately, the screen turns on. The same pink skull on the envelope appears. “ _¡Cuidado! ¡Cuidado! ¡Cuidado!_ ” the computer emits, an electronic voice in alarm.

“ _¿Qué está pasando?_ [32]” almost yells McCree, distrustful. At his side, Hanzo looks confused because he, obviously, doesn’t speak Spanish.

“ _Esta es la forma de contacto de Sombra,_ ” answers don Pedro. “ _Mira._ [33]”

And when he says that, the electronic voice shuts up only to be replaced by a distorted feminine one.

“Hello, lovebirds,” the voice greets them. “I see you haven’t forgotten how to speak Spanish, _vaquero_.”

“I grew up speakin’ Spanish, _linda_ ,” says McCree back, ironic. “ _Mi mamá regresaría de la tumba del coraje si olvidara cómo hablarlo._ [34]”

Sombra chuckles. “Very well. How can I help you, Jesse McCree?”

“Oh, no, your services ain’t for me. I only contacted you on behalf of my friend here, Hanzo.”

Sombra makes an amused sound and Hanzo’s frown only deepens.

“Are you _that_ Hanzo?” Sombra asks.

“I do not know what you mean,” replies Hanzo coldly.

“Does McCree _know_?” Sombra continues, something hidden underneath her words.

“Know what?” Jesse can’t help asking, like an idiot. Hanzo tenses up but doesn’t reply.

“He doesn’t!” Sombra exclaims, sounding almost excited. “You didn’t tell him, _young master_? That’s rude.”

Now it’s McCree’s turn to be confused. When he turns to look at Hanzo, questioning, he can see the archer is clenching his jaw. McCree decides it is not a good time to ask.

“How do _you_ know?” demands Hanzo in a snarl.

“I know _things_. It was a big deal in Japan’s underground,” McCree can almost feel the smirk in Sombra’s voice. Hanzo growls. “It still is. Who do you think set your bounty this high?”

And then Hanzo freezes, fear flashing in his eyes, realization hitting at once. “They know about my brother.”

“Of course,” replies Sombra. “He has a bounty too now.”

True fear takes over Hanzo’s features. He unclenches his jaw and his expression changes to the one McCree knows too well. The tired, lonely man. “Is he… safe?” he asks, voice breaking a bit at the end.

“You know he is,” and then Sombra pauses, dubious. “McCree doesn’t know, right? Are you sure you want to continue this conversation with him here?”

And Hanzo looks at him, looking older and tired, haunted by this new information. McCree steps back, taking an immensely confused don Pedro with him. Hanzo stops at the threshold of the door.

“Are you goin’ to be alright, Hanzo?” McCree asks, concerned.

“I…” divagates the archer, lowering his gaze so he won’t meet Jesse’s. “I promise I will explain everything to you.”

“It ain’t necessary, Hanzo,” says Jesse, softly. “A man needs to keep a secret or two.”

“I want to,” he whispers. “I cannot stay with you when you do not know about my sins. It is dishonest.”

“Stay with me?” McCree blinks, surprised. And then realization hits, like a ton of bricks. “Oh, Hanzo, darlin’…”

Hanzo immediately places a hand on the gunslinger chest, pushing him before Jesse could hug him. “Go, now.”

“I’ll be waitin’ for you, Hanzo,” Jesse puts his own hand on top of Hanzo’s. “And then I’ll tell you an interesting story too.”

* * *

 

The evening is peaceful. The air is warm and there are children playing in the neglected garden of the hotel. The grandkids of the owner, McCree supposes. He’s sitting on the stone stairs, the one leading to the hall where their room is.

His hat and serape are next to him, momentarily discarded. His thoughts haven’t left Hanzo since he promised to tell him the truth. But McCree doesn’t need the truth, not necessarily. He has his fair share of demons too. What could Hanzo possibly tell him that will drive him away?

The children on the garden laugh and scream in Spanish. He, somehow, wants to join them and teach them the games he used to play. The games his own mother taught to him when Jesse barely knew how to speak English. He remembers the soft words of his childhood, the kind laugh of his mamá, the warm soil beneath his knees.

Enthralled by his own thoughts, he’s unable to hear the steps coming closer. Hanzo’s voice breaks the silence.

“Hello, cowboy.”

McCree looks up, suddenly overwhelmed by the nostalgia. But he brushes it away quickly, smiling at Hanzo sheepishly.

“Howdy,” McCree takes his hat and serape and puts them on his lap. “Thought you would be in there forever.”

Hanzo sits right beside him and soon the warmth of his shoulder makes McCree feel a little better. The archer still won’t meet his eyes, though, and that unsettles him.

“I was paying Sombra for her services, my apologies,” says Hanzo. “I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

“Don’t worry, darlin’” whispers McCree back. He then looks at the glass bottle Hanzo is giving him, confused. “What’s that?”

“I brought you, uh, I think it is called mezcal?” says Hanzo in a low voice. Embarrassed. _Cute_ , Jesse thinks. “The owner told me you might enjoy it.”

McCree beams. He takes the bottle and reads the tag. _Mezcal oaxaqueño_. “You went and bought this for me? I haven’t had mezcal in years,” he exclaims.

Finally, Hanzo looks at him. His fierce eyes, his high cheekbones, the piercings at the bridge of his nose. And a small smile in his lips, pleased. That’s the expression Jesse loves.

“The owner doesn’t speak English,” McCree squints.

“I…” Hanzo looks even more embarrassed. “I asked for help from one of his grandkids. They are nice children.”

“Hummm,” says McCree. “Do you have limes? And the shots?”

“Yes,” from a paper bag he pulls out the small glasses and three lemons that are easily cut with the knife Hanzo always have on him. “What are they for?”

McCree smirks. “I’ll teach you in a moment.”

The gunslinger fills both shots to the top and hands over one to Hanzo. The archer takes it with certain suspicion.

“Look,” begins McCree. “You take a small sip and then you bite the lime to wash the taste away. It’s quite strong but smooth. I’ll go first.”

And as he says, he takes a small sip, feeling the strong taste on his tongue, even stronger than whisky. It leaves a pleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach but his mouth begins to protest, so he takes the half of a lime and bites, the citric calming his taste buds.

Hanzo watches him, almost in awe. “Your turn, darlin’,” says McCree still smirking.

The archer takes a sip, a bit hesitating, and makes a face at the taste. McCree erupts in laughter at his disgust. Hanzo swallows and goes immediately to bite the lime. His face goes back to normal as the citric washes the taste away.

But McCree doesn’t stop laughing, earning a glare from Hanzo. He wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes. “I did the same face when I had mezcal for the first time. You kinda get used to it after the first shot.”

“You did not lie about its strong taste. I have never had something like this in my life,” says Hanzo.

“Oh, Hanzo, darlin’…” McCree gets closer to him. “We are goin’ to get fuckin’ smashed. This shit is one hundred and ten proof.”

“Proof?” asks Hanzo.

“Fifty-five percent of alcohol.”

“Oh.”

“Well then, partner,” McCree raises his shot. “¡Salud!”

* * *

 

Hanzo says something in Japanese, looking at McCree and trying to start a conversation. He is dead serious and keeps mumbling in Japanese, smacking his hand on McCree’s thigh to get his attention.

His hair is coming undone, the undercut disappearing beneath the long straight hair. McCree thinks he looks gorgeous, the usual severity vanishing slowly thanks to the alcohol.

The alcohol is making McCree’s mind hazy, the bottle of mezcal long forgotten on the steps. He looks at Hanzo and replies a ‘yeah, sweetheart’. And the archers laughs, a rich sound that warms McCree in all the right ways.

“You are drunk,” says Hanzo stating the obvious.

“You’re drunk too,” replies McCree smiling like an idiot.

“No, I can hold my alcohol, cowboy,” huffs Hanzo, the small smile on his lips giving him away. “But I must say, mezcal is certainly terrifying.”

McCree laughs. “When I was twenty-one, my teammates decided to throw a party for me. My mentor brought this shit and we were out by the end of the night. I woke up the next day on the other side of the base cuddlin’ one of my friends. Partially naked. On the beach.”

Hanzo laughs. Loudly. That’s a sound McCree wants to hear regularly. The flush on his cheeks also betrays him, but McCree doesn’t care. He can blame it on the alcohol.

“When my brother and I were little,” starts Hanzo, pure glee in his gaze, “we found a bottle of umeshuu in the kitchen. The umeshuu is not a strong liquor, it is very sweet, so we thought nothing would happen if we drank some. When we finished the bottle, we started ripping the tatamis off.”

McCree doesn’t know what tatamis are and certainly hasn’t tasted umeshuu, but the fondness Hanzo’s words carry, makes him smile. He wonders how such a nice childhood story could turn into this man, taciturn, always on the run, hiding.

 _Same as mine_ , McCree thinks. _Bad decisions_. Hanzo sighs, contented. And in an absolute act of bravery, he puts his head on McCree’s shoulder, the long hair brushing the gunslinger’s beard and sending sparks of affection down his spine.

McCree holds his breath because maybe he passed out earlier and this is a dream? The contact is enough to have him sobering up, his mind on alert.

And Hanzo is not that drunk, because the words he speaks next are the ones of a man in his five senses. It’s just the alcohol that gave him an excuse to be brave.

“It is not fair to no tell you about an event in my past when you have helped me,” Hanzo says, something sad and awful in his voice. McCree winces. They were so good earlier, talking about stupid drunk stories.

“You owe me nothin’, darlin’. I helped you ‘cause I thought it was the right thing to do,” McCree murmurs.

“No, I want to,” replies the archer and McCree can practically sense him frowning. “You will know, sooner or later. And I prefer you to know directly from me.”

“Alright, Hanzo, shoot it. What is it?”                                                        

The archer takes a deep breath, clearly contemplating the words he is about to say. McCree waits for him patiently, giving him space to think. And he’s also embracing himself for anything that may hit close to home.

After all, Hanzo reminds him of the man he used to be. Still is. Haunted, lonely, hiding so nothing could hurt him.

The night seems to freeze, the world stopping for Hanzo and his words of regret, of pain, of something McCree can’t pinpoint. The only things anchoring them to reality are the warm air of spring, their shy fingers craving to be held and their breathings, sharing the same tempo.

“I once had a brother,” Hanzo whispers, softly. “I loved him and he loved me back. I was the first son, born to rule an empire. I was meant for greatness, and so I was raised to be a leader, one who could sacrifice his heart for power. My brother had his share of duties too, but he ignored all of them to pursue the dreams of youth. He was laid back, carefree; he spoke too loud, ate too fast. And I envied him. I was bound by duty, destined to bring honor to our family, and he was free, something I yearned for.”

Hanzo takes a breath and slightly trembles above McCree’s shoulder.

“And then our father died. The empire did not have a ruler anymore, so king I became,” Hanzo pauses. “My brother lost the protector of his freedom. Sparrow, my father used to call him. ‘My little sparrow, oh you fly so far away from my reach’. With his protector gone, the elders stepped in. They said the sparrow had to be tied down, caged. I had to exchange my heart and my brother had to exchange his freedom. That was the price of a kingdom.”

McCree listens carefully, not missing Hanzo’s fingers searching for contact. The gunslinger gives it to him, skin against skin, a small action of comfort.

“I did it, I gave my heart to keep the empire. But my brother refused. And so I, a ruler blinded by things like honor and duty, was ordered to kill the sparrow,” Hanzo’s breath hitches and stays silent for long minutes until he finds the right words. “My blindness was fear. I was scared of losing the only home I knew, of throwing away the life I was destined to live. So I fed on the words the elders gave me. Kill the sparrow, they said, you are the only one who can reach him; cut his wings and adorn your crown with his feathers to teach your servants of what you are capable, so no one will dare to disobey you. That same night, I took my sword and struck him down.

“I cut the sparrow’s wings because I could not have mine. I said I did it for honor, but my honor disappeared the moment he shed the first drop of blood. The dear sparrow of my father stopped fighting back and I became a beast, not a king nor a ruler. A beast without a heart, with blood on its hands. I watched my brother born and I watched him die.

“The elders were quick to greet me only to be shocked and horrified when they saw a beast instead of their golden king. I did not have a heart but I still felt pain and regret. I howled every night and I saw behind my claws the damaged I had caused. I hated myself for what I did and for what I became, and I could not bear it. I found myself unable to stay, because without my brother I was lost. So I left the kingdom that once was my home, my crown and everything I was destined to be.

“The elders turned their back on me. They said I was a traitor, a beast with too many weaknesses. They sent assassins and hunters after me. They put a price on my head so I would know that I was unable to go back. I could not return to my home, I had lost it forever. I craved death but I did not deserved it. I could only die by my brother’s hand, the only fair death. And that was my punishment: I could not die but I could not live either, I did not have a home, I was convicted to roam pointlessly for eternity.

“I spent ten years travelling around the world, searching for some kind of redemption. I did what I could to honor my brother. I risked myself every day on the same year to give his soul an offering. And I prayed. ‘My little sparrow, oh you fly so far away from my reach’. Always the same pray. Those were the only days I felt human again.

“And then, one night, while praying, a stranger appeared. He said he knew me, he said he knew why I prayed. He said my brother’s name, enraging the beast. He told me what had happened that night, said what I already knew: it was not honor for what I struck down my brother. He knew my burdens but he would not grant me the death I wished for.

“I asked who was he and the stranger called me ‘brother’ but I had no brother, I had killed him with my own hands many years ago. The beast denied this man as my brother, but I knew. When I saw the scars my blade had made, I knew. The body was not the same and the voice sounded different from what I remembered but he was still my brother. I still loved him and hoped we would still love me back. Genji, the dear sparrow of my father, was alive.

“Wait,” says McCree immediately. The realization hits him slowly, almost gently, like the warm breeze of the night. _It can’t be_ , he tells myself. But the name is there and the vague story he once was told years ago fits in. And he dares to ask. “Is your brother Genji Shimada?”

Hanzo tenses up instantly. He rises his head almost hitting McCree in the process. His eyes, wide in surprise and horror, fixes into the gunslinger. The calm atmosphere vanishes and the world starts moving again, reality ready to drag them both back.

“You know him,” Hanzo says. An affirmation. “You know Genji.”

He is unsettled, his alarms go blaring like when he met the archer. For the first time, he can see the beast Hanzo was talking about. A wounded dragon drowning in his solitude and regret. A majestic dragon that fell to earth to atone for his sins. A pitiful creature, once prideful, condemned to wander.

Just like him. When McCree sees the beast, he can also see himself reflected.

Hanzo is starting to retreat, ready to escape. He can sense McCree’s doubt because the archer is not stupid.

“Wait,” murmurs McCree before Hanzo can get up and run away. “We were teammates and we all kinda knew the story behind his new body. But we didn’t know the details and he didn’t talk about it. And we didn’t push the subject ‘cause, well, we all had dark pasts and tragic stories to tell. We were criminals tryin’ to do good.”

“What do _you_ know?” snarls Hanzo, suddenly defensive. His jaw is clenched, but his eyes give him away. Pain. Regret. The old wounds open again.

McCree is hesitant to answer and when he does, his words are soft, careful. “I knew about the older brother, the heir of the Shimada empire, who almost killed his brother. And years later I knew about the older brother, the wanderer, the one who had a bounty on his head.”

“You knew it was me when we met in the bar,” says Hanzo, squinting his eyes, the feeling of being betrayed flashing through his features.

“I didn’t,” answers McCree honestly. “When I learned Genji’s brother had a bounty, it was through him. He found out months before Overwatch got disbanded and couldn’t do much. Blackwatch became a bad place and we went separate ways.”

“What?” Hanzo exclaims, absolutely shocked. The guilt and the pain momentarily forgotten in his voice. “You were with Overwatch? And Genji was your teammate?”

McCree makes a perfect ‘o’ with his lips, realizing what he just said. He must look like an idiot because he feels like one. And then he laughs awkwardly when Hanzo’s stare turns severe.

“Ahaha. I wanted to explain that to you too?” Hanzo raises an eyebrow, incredulous. McCree laughs again, sheepishly. “I was part of the Deadlock gang, y’know, real nasty fellas, they enjoy traffickin’ with weapons and stuff? I, uh, got picked by Overwatch and they gave me two options: rot in prison or try to make a change for good.”

“You chose the later,” completes Hanzo, still looking at him in disbelief. McCree shrugs, not knowing what else to do.

“I—yeah, I did. Gabriel Reyes took me under his wing and gave me a second opportunity,” McCree sighs and brushes his shaggy hair backwards, his words even softer than before. “I ain’t no one to judge your past, Hanzo. I did lots of bad things too, back when I was young and stupid.”

“But I was not young and stupid when I almost killed Genji,” says Hanzo, his tone turning bitter. “I fully knew what I was doing. I have no excuses for myself.”

Hanzo stands up, agitated, and McCree follows his stomps through the corridor. The archer looks upset, his muscles tensed under the black shirt. He opens the door of their room with a slam.

“Wait, darlin’,” McCree speaks behind the man, looking as he takes his bow and the little bag containing his belongings. “I won’t stop you if you want to go, but please hear me out?”

“I killed my brother, McCree,” the archer yells, deeply shaken by his own past. “I killed him and that will be forever my curse. A beast like me does not deserve love nor compassion. You should have turned away from me the moment you learned about my past.”

Hanzo is so upset he’s shaking. He looks so broken, the prideful man he met at the bar barely a memory. Jesse’s heart breaks right there, shattering hard against his breathing. “Oh, Hanzo, oh darlin’…”

He takes two steps towards Hanzo, his own strength vanishing. The archer looks so vulnerable, so fragile, and he averts his eyes. Jesse’s chest hurts.

They were so lonely.

“Hanzo, listen to me,” McCree whispers closing the space between him and the archer. “I know Genji. We’re friends and we’re comrades and he saved my ass so many times. I met him when he first joined Overwatch and… I can’t lie to you, he was a mess. He’d snap at everyone and was so aggressive we had to keep an eye on him. He never told me the full story but I ain’t stupid. He was hurt, full of hatred for what he had become. He got better with the years, ‘course, but was still unable to move on. You didn’t finish your story, Hanzo, but I know Genji and I know why you’re here. He forgave you, didn’t he?”

Hanzo stares at McCree, in shock, his features collapsing into the broken mask of the beast. But to Jesse, he looked more human than ever.

The archer gasps and then makes a choked sound. “I cannot stay with you. I cannot have feelings for you. We are not good for each other,” he says on his knees, his hands hiding his face. “Why would you want to stay with someone like me?”

Jesse reaches for Hanzo on the floor, wraping his arms around the back of the archer. He’s still shaking and McCree touches him delicately. His mouth searches for Hanzo’s ear so he can tell him the last story Hanzo needs to hear.

“After Overwatch disbanded, we all split. I’ve had a bounty on my head since I was seventeen and I couldn’t pretend to have a normal life so I became a wanderer. My mentor had died and my comrades on Blackwatch all turned against the good they used to believe in. I was alone, I had nowhere to go. I don’t remember my siblings and I hope they don’t remember me,” McCree sighs against Hanzo’s neck, smelling the warm scent of soap and incense. “I travelled the world tryin’ to find redemption in my own way. In one of those travels, I met with Genji again. It ain’t my story to tell, but… he was so much better. He has found peace after all these years.”

Hanzo trembled once more. The beast that emerged from the sorrow and the pain, stops. It is not a dragon: just a human.

McCree digs his fingers into the long hair and sighs. Peace finally washes over them. Hanzo’s breath stops being erratic after a while and then he can speak, choosing his words carefully, ending his story.

“He said he forgave me and that he believed I still have a purpose in this life. I was told the world is changing once again and I had to pick a side,” Hanzo’s words are muffled, his lips against the strong shoulder of McCree. “And I have my answer.”

“That’s why you contacted Sombra,” McCree adventures. “You want to know the location of Genji.”

“Yes, I need to meet with him again. My life belongs to my brother until I can live for myself.”

“That sounds nice, darlin’,” coddles McCree.

Their embrace is intimate. The bow is on the floor, along with Hanzo’s belongings. _A home_ , McCree thinks, _Genji’s got somethin’ like that. I hope Hanzo can find one too_.

The cowboy can feel Hanzo warm and safe in his arms. His beard against the soft fabric of Hanzo’s shirt and the breaths the archer takes against his chest. He has barely known this man and already had a heart out with him. He is not a stranger anymore.

And McCree realizes something. Just give it a little bit of time. It isn’t love, not right now, but it could be.

It could be.

“Sombra told me my brother’s location,” says Hanzo breaking the silence. “I plan to depart tomorrow.”

McCree’s fingers dig deeper into the hair, touching the nice muscles on Hanzo’s back. _So this is the end_ , he reminds himself. “You really didn’t plan to stay.”

“I… I am bad at this,” confesses Hanzo. “Genji used to tease me about my lack of romantic life. He said I scared people and made children cry.”

McCree snorts. “I think your frown is pretty cute, actually.”

Hanzo chokes, surprised, and Jesse laughs. Oh, Hanzo is so easy to fluster behind his façade of iron king. He understands why Genji took so much pleasure in teasing his brother.

“I don’t want you to leave,” whispers McCree, not missing the shiver that went Hanzo’s spine. “Stay with me just this night?”

Hanzo puts a hand on his chest and the gunslinger is ready for the rejection. But, instead of pushing him away, Hanzo fists the plaid shirt and attracts his lips to Jesse’s in a violent collision that makes the cowboy see stars.

McCree groans, his hands immediately on Hanzo’s neck to deepen the kiss. He realizes how much he has wanted this until Hanzo is holding on to him for dear life.

The archer kisses fiercely, his breath against McCree’s, raging, erratic, like the lips moving against his. Jesse doesn’t know if the kisses will turn into violence or shyness, if Hanzo will fight him or embrace him. But he continues kissing him, tongues hot and soft moans of desire.

After a while, Hanzo breaks the kiss, with his hair made a mess and the face flushed. McCree is breathing hard and his pants feel a bit too tight.

“I can grant you that wish,” says Hanzo with a smirk.

_Holy. Shit._

McCree forgets how to speak English when Hanzo goes down on him. He returns to his primal instincts, all of his desires being built around the beautiful man that is speaking to him softly in Japanese.

And McCree replies, throwing his head back. _Quédate una noche más, un día más, quédate por siempre. [35]_

* * *

 

The sunlight seeps through the curtains, waking McCree up. He groans and cover his eyes with one pillow.

“Fuck,” his groggy voice is barely audible and he groans again. He is so warm and happy and he had a rough night full of emotional baggage and old stories. He deserves to sleep until late.

However, when he tries to move his flesh arm to turn around, he realizes there’s someone there using it as a pillow. McCree stops squinting to open his eyes and the sight that greets him is something that makes him gasp.

Long black curtains of hair adorn the white pillows, a strong arm with a tattoo has him firmly held by the waist and the long eyelashes create a shadow beneath Hanzo’s skin. McCree is enthralled by a few seconds before he can see Hanzo’s expression, of peace and carelessness.

Not a beast. Not a king. Not a wanderer. Just Hanzo.

McCree’s thumb goes to his cheek and he softly trails the beard on his jaw. He could get used to wake up with this sight every day of his life.

Hanzo sighs and slowly wakes up. Of course, he is a man on the run, he needs to alert at all times.

McCree smiles, stupidly, and he surely must look like a fool because Hanzo snorts when his eyes are completely open.

“Mornin’, beautiful,” McCree says, his hand not moving from Hanzo’s face.

“You are a ridiculous man,” replies Hanzo, a smirk on his lips.

“And you’re a gorgeous one.”

Hanzo blushes at his words and McCree’s smile goes wider. “Stay a bit more?” he pleads, closing the space between his torso and Hanzo’s.

“I would like to, but I cannot,” Hanzo sighs. “Genji is far away from here and it is a long trip.”

McCree can’t help feeling a bit sad. He obviously knows what Hanzo’s first priority is. Genji. And he also has a place to be before answering the Recall. “So this is a goodbye,” murmurs McCree burying his nose in the crook of Hanzo’s neck.

To his surprise, Hanzo snorts. “Are you being dramatic?”

“No,” McCree lies. “Well, maybe a bit?”

“You truly are a ridiculous man,” Hanzo sounds amused and McCree can’t help smiling. Damn.

“I never got to ask, and I hope you don’t mind but, how much did you pay Sombra?” asks McCree. He is genuinely curious because Sombra isn’t a cheap informer and being a Talon agent definitely has its perks.

Hanzo snorts again and McCree can sense the smirk in his voice. “I did not pay her with money. We exchanged information. I told her everything I know about the Shimada clan and their business in other countries. That was all.”

“Hummm,” Hanzo bites the naked shoulder beneath his lips earning a surprised groan from Hanzo. “I actually have a place I need to go too, darlin’.”

“Do you?” sighs Hanzo when McCree’s teeth leave his shoulder.

“Yeah. It’s my tradition, y’know. I like to remind myself where I come from. It’s nice. My mamá would come back from the dead if I ever dared to forget to go home for her birthday.”

“Home,” Hanzo murmurs. “I would like to go back again someday. I miss it dearly.”

McCree asks Hanzo to describe the place he grew up in. Hanzo tells him about the sakura, the tatami floors, the sliding doors, the snow in winter. About his father, Soujirou, a king with a soft spot for his children. He describes Genji’s favorite ramen shop and the arcade he had to drag his little brother from so many times. He tells him about the big gardens and his long hours of solitude by the pond.

McCree dozes off while Hanzo tries to remember the names he gave to the ducks that lived in the pond, feeling happy, warm and safe.

* * *

 

“Do you think that if I give you my serape Genji will notice?” asks McCree, seriously contemplating giving one of his spurs to Hanzo if he rejects his red serape.

“Genji will never stop teasing me,” replies Hanzo. “I will never hear the end of it.”

“Alright, darlin’, what do you want?” McCree opens his arms and Hanzo frowns. “You can take any piece of clothin’ you like.”

“I am tempted to take the hat, but you will be a fake cowboy without it, so no, thank you,” Hanzo snorts.

Another stupid smile grows in McCree’s lips. Damn, this man makes funny things inside of his chest.

“I want to see you again,” McCree says, softly, his gaze tender on Hanzo.

“I believe we will meet again, cowboy,” replies Hanzo, smiling, his lips barely curling.

“I’ll take you to dinner, darlin’, a real date, how that sounds? In a nice place, not a bar that smells like piss and rotten wood.”

Hanzo chuckles.

“I like the idea. But, please, do not dress like a cowboy or Genji will literally never let me live.”

“Alright, darlin’, I’ll wear a fancy suit just for you. Deal?”

Hanzo steps forward. He cups McCree’s face between his hands and kisses him on the lips, faintly. Jesse has no time to react, his heart breaking a little when Hanzo steps away.

“Until we meet again, Jesse.”

* * *

 

McCree has to admit he missed the old team.

 Angela chides him about his smoking habits but laughs when Jesse replies he was shit at running even before he lighted up his first cigarette. Reinhardt greets him with a painful pat in the back and a jar of his favorite German beer. Winston gives him his agent ID and three peanut butter cookies, made by himself. Lena screeches about how good is to see him again and tells him that Emily is recently into cowboy movies, making McCree smile. Torbjörn asks him about his prosthetic arm and offers to check it later.

Winston informs them that new members are about to join Overwatch in the next weeks, so they all can take their time to set up his own private rooms.

McCree doesn’t have lots of belongings. Just his tools to give Peacekeeper proper maintenance, like six different plaid shirts and one he bought in New Mexico with the print of a dinosaur playing the guitar. Three pair of jeans, all worn out and with unknown splotches the washing machine could never get rid of.

The old beds are still stiff and awful for his back and McCree sighs. He makes a mental list of the things he needs to buy. A new mattress, a new pair of socks, a fucking fan because he remembers how hot Gibraltar can get in summer and he doesn’t want to suffer every night.

Inside of the black bag that contains his things, he finds the bottle of mezcal Hanzo gifted him. It’s half empty, so he can still drink one or two _caballitos_ after dinner. He puts it carefully above one of the shelf of the small bookcase the room has.

And smiles. He wonders how Hanzo is doing. Does he still frowns when he falls asleep?

He is so busy complaining about the shitty mattress that he doesn’t hear when Lena knocks his door. It’s not until Athena informs him Lena is outside, he snaps out of his thoughts.

McCree goes up and opens the door, sliding with a hiss in front of him.

“Are you going deaf, luv?” she asks him, frowning.

“No,” he frowns too. Is he going old? Will he need a cane soon? “I was, uh, busy. What’s up?”

“New agents arrived, Winston is telling everybody to come and greet them!” Lena exclaims, and in a flash, she’s already on the corner of the corridor. “C’mon!”

“Wait! Weren’t they supposed to arrive next week?” McCree asks, in vain. He sprints towards Lena who is nowhere near his reach.

He feels stupid for running to the cafeteria. Angela may be right and he should stop smoking. “Fuck,” he grunts.

He arrives all disheveled at the cafeteria, panting hard like an old dog. The cafeteria door slides and McCree is ready to unleash all of his complains when a familiar voice exclaims: “Yo! It’s good to see you again, McCree!”

His eyes immediately flashes from the green cyborg ninja to the figure next to him. Tall, buff, black hair with an undercut. A piercing in the bridge of his nose. A magnificent tattoo on his left arm.

His alarms do not got blaring this time. They stay silent, recognizing the man in front of him. Not dangerous. Not a threat.

When McCree takes a good look at the gorgeous man he notices something.

The beast had vanished.

There is only a mere human, a man, looking at him with a smirk in his lips.

McCree takes two steps forward, forgetting Genji and his other teammates, ignoring the attention they’re receiving.

“Howdy there, darlin’. See you tonight at eight?”

**Author's Note:**

> [1] "Hey, how do we know your information is not a tramp? We have bounties on our heads."  
> [2] "Of course not. Because the bounty hunters arrive first and then the police comes."  
> [3] "Not even us like to stay there for too long. It's a forgotten place."  
> [4] "Did you go to the bakery just for this?"  
> [5] "Jesse, it's good to see you again."  
> [6] "Don Pedro, it's good to be back."  
> [7] "I saw an Asian man going to your room in the morning, he said he was a friend of yours. He didn't look like a member of Los Muertos, so I let him in."  
> [8] "Yeah, he's my ally."  
> [9] "Are you here for business or just visiting?"  
> [10] "Don Pedro, can I ask you something?"  
> [11] "What is it, cowboy?"  
> [12] "Do you know anything about this new informer, Sombra? I hear about them from another informer in Calavers. He said Sombra is getting pretty famous in the underground. You would be of so much help If you knew something about them, anything."  
> [13] "Follow me."  
> [14] "I've been tracking her for a long time. When Los Muertos got military weapons out of nowhere, I knew someone smart was behind them, so I investigated. She's a Talon hacker. That's Sombra. But the person before she was a hacker? Nothing, not a single thing about her past."  
> [15] "Any clue why she's selling information even though she's with Talon?"  
> [16] "None. Maybe it's to fund Talon's operations. What do you need of Sombra? I'm not sure if her information is trustworthy, but I know she's leaked Overwatch videos and that's enough to score some points in the underground."  
> [17] "My partner needs a location, some coordinates. He didn't tell me where he wants to go, but he's willing to pay Sombra's price, so it must be something hard to find."  
> [18] "The rumors spread fast in the underground. Where did you find him?"  
> [19] "Where else?"  
> [20] "If he's your ally, then he's mine too. Don't worry, McCree, I'm too old to be a bounty hunter."  
> [21] "Thank you, I'll talk with Hanzo about Sombra. Thank you for the information and for letting us stay."  
> [22] "You're welcome. I would be breaking my promise to Gabriel if I don't help you."  
> [23] "McCree, what brings you here?"  
> [24] "My father used to drink these ones."  
> [25] "We need to contact Sombra."  
> [26] "You want to contact Sombra, eh, cowboy? What kind of information do you need?"  
> [27] "We need a location."  
> [28] "The request it's done. We will be waiting for her reply."  
> [29] "No, that's not how it's done! You have to give something in exchange, Sombra doesn't make deals like this!"  
> [30] "I've been here more time than you. Sombra isn't an idiot, I know she works for Talon and you're something that can easily be discarded."  
> [31] What is your price, cowboy  
> [32] "What is happening?"  
> [33] "This is how Sombra is contacting us."  
> [34] "My mom would come back from the dead just to kick my ass if I ever forget how to speak it."  
> [35] Stay one more night, one more day, stay forever.
> 
> google will be your best friend for any other doubts you have.  
> (and yes, i put a reference to a billy ray cyrus song, because the spanish cover is actually really, really popular in mexico)  
> thank you for reading!


End file.
